Turnabout
by MessengerOfDreams
Summary: Samus isn't above hostage situations, even if it means she's got a small cardboard box in a vice grip for the sake of petty revenge. Fluff, thank God.


**So Tune gave me a fun prompt, I wrote this, and it's not half-bad. I did want to try a Samus/Mac pairing anyways. Is that hip with the kids? I don't know. Plus I still got a weird-ass Mac pairing that I need to edit thoroughly. So I don't care. **

**Hope you like this little fluffy bit. It's with Samus, like half my pieces are, but I think I'm finally starting to write Samus in a fun way. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, regret nothing, and let them forget nothing.**

I honestly can't believe these fucking people.

Immediately I knew it was missing, because I could count the possessions I brought with me to the Smash Boarding House on about one hand. Just a tiny duffel bag and an empty room. I didn't really need much, but what I brought, I needed. Silly me for thinking that any of the people here had any sense of decency, even him. Bunch of rabid animals, people and beast alike.

I pull my hair up and into a ponytail. He may have caught me off guard, but he should know better to mess with someone who knows how to use over a hundred different guns, knives, and assorted weapons. I simply grab my paralyzer, shove it into my worn-out holster (nearly breaking through to the other side of the damn thing), and walk out of the room.

Through the halls I go. It's a madhouse, as can be expected when you have fifty different people from god-knows-how-many species, races, and backgrounds. I lose count, and I really don't care. It's not my priority to care, just to make it through this gauntlet of hell alive.

I'm moving faster than the situation calls for, possibly because I enter every room like a battlefield. My first obstacle is Diddy Kong on a spiral stairwell, who's playing popgun tag with Toon Link. He sees me, and tries to aim one at me. It takes one aim of the paralyzer for his pupils to nearly disappear into the whites of his eyes and for him to dive behind Toon, who looks like I've already used it on him.

If they're scared of me, good. I just want them to leave me alone, and fear's a good way to get that done.

I shove the gun back into my holster, and I feel the fabric tear a little more. Wonderful.

I'm able to avoid any more misadventures through the parlor room and entrance halls, although I can sense about ten different people giving me what-in-the-bloody-hell looks as I dart through everywhere. It's not until I hear my name that I stop, perhaps a little too suddenly, as I nearly lurch forward into a cake that Mr. Game and Watch is carrying through what I now know to be the kitchen.

"Whoooooa, dolly," he says, alarmed but laughing. "Slow your roll."

I'm straight to business. "Mac. Where is he?"

"Ma'am, if you asked me to keep track of every one of these lunatics I'd be out of the little brainspace I have left," he cracks, steadying the cake. "I don't want to stick around too long lest I break right here but if you're talking Mac, I saw a pink jacket go," he balances the cake and points with his admittedly large nose, "that-a-ma-way."

Out of the kitchen, into the east dorms. "Thank you."

"Try not to kill him." He laughs as I run off. "I don't want to be your accomplice."

Sorry, sir. No promises.

I am all too aware of where Mac's room is, and I take a few corridors in perfect memorization to get to it. I kick the door open, and it just barely stays on its hinges, although my boots leave a hole in the frame. I know I'll get another lecture from Master Hand about how to treat the infrastructure, but after four tourneys of it I know I'll just tune it out.

"Mac," I demand to silence and emptiness.

Oh, what a wonderful world. The thieving bastard went on the run with it.

I think back to situations like these. Unfortunately, even the subtlest of relatable memories are dark and serious, but the infrastructure is the same. If someone has a target, there are ways of freeing it. I'm not above hostage situations.

I look through his room. Unlike me, his shit is everywhere, and it's a mess. Sometimes I don't know why I'm involved with a man who is the exact opposite of I. I kick clothes aside- clearly he's not expecting me, or this place would be so clean it'd be like no one lived here, although I'd assume everything's just shoved into the closets.

Oh, shit, speaking of which.

I kick open the closets. Go figure, they're perfectly clean aside from some memorabilia and sealed packages. I pick them up, and in the distance of memories that I only quasi focused on, I remember him saying he expected family soon. I see some of the tags on these packages, and they're names of people I don't know who share his last name of Louis.

I can't help but stop an evil grin as I pick an unlabeled one. If he's going to play dirty, I'm going to dive into the depths of this mess. I never do shit halfway either (aside from paying attention to whatever the man I'm dating says, but I think it's established I'm not exactly perfect).

A smirk on my face, I hold onto it in a chokehold despite it being, well, one damn box. I exit the room, not bothering to kick the clothes back into their messy place. He'll know it was me. I'm not exactly subtle, as evidenced by the way I find an open door in the back and run out it, box in a vice grip, paralyzer in my holster, into the park just outside of the dorms overlooking the sound just before the city.

Mac has to be out here. I sure hope so, otherwise I'm sure to be the center of attention, yippee.

Luckily, the briefest of moments tips me off to his jet black fauxhawk, and the pepto-pink hoodie he for some god-only-knows reason wears. I begin to walk, but my steps slow as I'm not entirely sure what to say. I think I'm just now realizing that I'm not just blood-and-thunder angry that he busted into my room, I'm a little peeved in a personal way. I like a man who challenges me, but I've never had patience for people who break protocol, and our relationship regarding our times spent in rooms have a small set of rules. Keep quiet, others are listening and there are children here. Don't smoke in each other's rooms, because that shit will never stop smelling awful. All fighting equipment and weaponry will be left in its storage areas, this is making love, not war. And most importantly, don't fuck with each other's belongings, which should be easy for him because I have like five belongings and he has way too fucking many.

But then that gets into emotional shit, and that's annoying. And it's annoying that I care about him being a mild pissant who digs into my shit, but considering the name that's inscribed in the jacket of the book, he should really know better.

At the very least, I decide against shooting him and just whack him on the head.

He winces, and to my surprise, I hear a child's giggling.

I see him close the book, after a tiny set of hands move out of the way. "Well, nice knowing you, Maureen," Mac says as he turns to face me. "Would you like me to explain or are you just going to kill me now."

I gesture to my white pantsuit and tank top. "I'll never get the blood out of this shit," is my excuse. "Plus I'm pretty sure we don't want kids interfering with our-"

Oh brother. Or sister, more accurately.

Maureen Louis looks up at me with a borderline satanic grin as she watches me discipline Mac. That's a little sister's grin, and I find it cuter than I should. Her hands rest on my book and I feel my cold metallic heart loosen up a bit.

Goddamn it.

"Long story short, you should have just asked, and I wouldn't be teasing the idea of messing up that beautiful face of yours." That's the closest he gets to any sort of emotional workout from me.

"Yeah, I know," he replies. "Just that you were training, and I knew she'd love this story." He takes the picture book with a litany of stars on it and hands it back to me.

"I'm flattered that apparently you read it," I admit, and the kid walks up to my knee. It's cute until she starts reaching for the book, after which I want to dropkick the brat. "I think you missed the first little page, though."

I open it pointedly, and point to my mother's name. He gives an understanding "ohhhh".

"Yeah," I say, but I don't linger on the emotion for too long. "So if you got any dirt on it, I'll finish you."

"I thought we didn't get kids involved with finishing things."

I turn about as red as the blood in my veins. "Apparently I finished you a little too well before you picked that book up the first time. Either way-"

"Also, way to kidnap your own gift."

I stop strangling the box and look at it. It's unwrapped, like he'd just received his order. "Really now," I muse. "Well, since we're all about opening shit prematurely…"

"Go for it."

I'm game, until he pulls the kid off my leg and gives her a cocky little grin. Junior Sadist giggles, and now I have half a mind to clear a perimeter to make sure there's nothing lethal in there.

Oh get over yourself, it's Mac. He's about as normal and honest as it gets outside the robbery of old children's books. You wouldn't be as close to him as you are if he was capable of lying, deceit, and any douchebaggery that isn't almost adorably transparent.

I open it, and thank god it's nothing too fancy, but I like it.

"At least you're not proposing marriage," I fire at him, but it's still sweet. It's a new holster, which I desperately needed. Black leather, in good shape, and can fit any of the embarrassing amount of weapons I own. I take the paralyzer, and for good measure aim it at Mac. He doesn't flinch, although the kid nearly leaps into the water at the sight of it. I think that's kind of sweet, although he's lucky I don't fire it after his little stunt. I take my old holster, chuck it into the river, and put the new one on and place the paralyzer in it. It actually looks pretty badass, like I'm fresh on the scene and not a worn-out, washed-up thirty-something hunter.

A girl can dream, I suppose.

I pull him up by the collar, and he still doesn't look scared. I guess after you get naked a few times with someone trust to not murder you over a misdemeanor is something to be expected, but I like it. As I'm sure he'd expect, I kiss him on his cheek and admit, "you're a sap."

But so am I, because I'm starting to love this moron.

**You're welcome for giving you a story where there's no tears, tragedy, death, or any of the angsty shit I thrive on. May as well have a breather before New Years. **

**Take care, take care, take care!**


End file.
